


Turducken

by FiaMac



Series: Portmanteaux With Love [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, Holiday Themes, M/M, No Poultry Was Harmed In The Making Of This Fic, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Everyone in dreamshare has heard the rumors about Arthur. Well, almost everyone...
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Portmanteaux With Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/693339
Comments: 19
Kudos: 72





	Turducken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IAmANonnieMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/gifts).



> In this fic, I finally got to reimagine one of my favorite scenes from another story. No regrets.
> 
> Dedicated to my one and only Mousie, for being the best, worst wingman in the fandom. (hehe... wingman...)
> 
> Also, I just discovered there's a Les Mis fic that used that same poultry tag. Wild.

The world of dreamthieves is flush with Arthurian legends.

Some are obviously hyped-up bogeyman tales circulated around discussion forums by B-list extractors in an effort to drum up street cred, while others are so impossibly, ridiculously farfetched that they _have_ to be true. In general, though, everyone in dreamshare acknowledges that there’s no earthly way anyone (no, not even Arthur Last-Name-Redacted) could extract the secrets of the Illuminati from the pope, start a coup in West Africa, _and_ sleep with Ryan Reynolds in the same day.

So, clearly then, some of the things said about Arthur just can’t be true. At least one of those stories has to be false, even though the supporters for Ryan-loving make a pretty convincing argument despite grainy surveillance photos of a man wearing a tailored waistcoat buying cannoli in Rome on the day in question. (Besides, have you _seen_ Arthur’s thighs? Those are not the thighs of a man who eats cannoli.)

However, if there is one thing—one cautionary tale—that everyone can agree on, it is this: Arthur is frightfully protective of Eames.

The stories of what happens to those sad fools that put Eames in their crosshairs are epic. Like that time Arthur slaughtered his own team because they tried to assassinate Eames with cyanide-laced raisins. That’s right. Everyone knows that story, and how it’s the reason why Arthur won’t let Eames eat anything that he hasn’t personally checked, first. For, you know, poisons and stuff.

Want to earn yourself a sudden and painful death? Try to hand Eames a homemade muffin. See what happens.

Yeah, word gets around, alright.

Just a shame that not everyone reads the newsletter…

* * *

Once upon a time, there were three young extractors hoping to earn a shit ton of easy money.

Now, the great misfortune of said extractors is that they possess more ambition than wit. Such traits don’t go far in an industry that relies heavily on personal reference. No references? No jobs. Especially not when flashy extractors like Dominic Cobb sweep in and poach your clients out from under you.

This may have been what happened to those three enterprising extractors. As in, yes, that’s exactly what happened to them. And not once, but twice. Twice have these hopeful fellows—let’s call them Aman, Gilmore, and Rhonda—lined up meetings with prospective clients, only to learn at the last minute that their services wouldn’t be needed. Because _Dom Cobb_ is willing to take the job, and _isn’t that exciting?_

Aman definitely doesn’t think it’s exciting.

Gilmore mouth-breathes, but not in an excited way.

Rhonda pretends she doesn’t care, but it’s pretty obvious she’s the one who kicked the trashcan over, even if she says she was in the other room the whole time.

So, no. Not exciting.

Frustrating.

Infuriating.

Embarrassing.

Of course, then, they do what any self-respecting entrepreneurial criminal would do—they plan their revenge.

* * *

Rhonda is in charge of holding the gun while Gilmore and Aman heave their unconscious captive out of the van. Yes, he’s out cold and therefore harmless, but they are professionals. They’ve got this. Like bosses.

Aman drops his end—fortunately the feet—and regards his companions. “So, now what?”

Gilmore staggers under the remaining dead weight, lowering his burden to the ground mostly by falling on his ass—and it doesn’t make sense, this forger guy being so bulky. Most people in the business are on the svelte side. They work lying down, for crying out loud! There’s no need for showboat muscles, who is this guy trying to impress anyway, and it’s just one more bullet point proving that he deserves what’s coming to him.

Gilmore scrambles out from under the forger and springs to his feet. This is a grand moment. Time to shine. “Alright. We want to send Cobb a message, yeah? Which means we gotta go big with this, guys. So big. We gotta show Cobb we’re serious. So,” he looks down at the forger, framing the shot with his hands. “Here’s my vision—we put him a body bag.”

“That’s it?” Aman asks.

“What do you mean, _that’s it_?”

Rhonda squints one eye. “Wait, if he’s in a body bag, how will Cobb know it’s him? You won’t be able to see his face.”

Gilmore sighs. “If you would let me finish…” She always does this, seriously. “We put a camera in the bag with him. We livestream this bitch,” he grins, hand held out for a fist bump.

But Rhonda’s flat glare says she clearly doesn’t get it. “Won’t it be too dark in the bag to see anything?”

Aman stares down at the forger. “I don’t know, I feel like there needs to be more.”

“More what?”

“Just _more_. Like, the whole body bag thing is a nice start and all, but don’t you think it’s a little done?”

Okay, good point. Good point. “One of those big freezers, then?”

Rhonda shakes her head. “That’s been done even more than the body bag thing.”

Eyes popping, Aman sucks in a breath. “Oh, I know. How about one of those plastic storage tubs? Like people use for Christmas decorations.”

Gilmore frowns and exchanges a look with Rhonda. “That’s kind of weird.”

“No, see, we could even put ribbons and bows and shit on it.”

Rhonda shakes her head again. “Still pretty weird, bro.”

“It’s _ironic_. Because Christmas is coming. And we’ve got a _gift_ for Cobb. You see?”

And, yeah… yeah. He does see. Gilmore pictures it in his mind and slowly nods. If they used red ribbon... “I kind of like it,” he says, and Rhonda laughs in that not-nice way of hers.

“Seriously?”

“You got a better plan?”

She rolls her eyes at them, which she really shouldn’t do because it makes her look like a startled horse. “Well, hell, why don’t we stick him in the body bag and then _stick that_ in the storage tub.”

Oh. Oh! “That’s amazing.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Dude, no, that was a joke.”

Aman dances from one foot to other with excitement. “No, this is perfect. It’s… it’s in theme. Like a turducken.”

“A what?”

Aman turns to him, face glowing. “Turducken. When you stuff a chicken inside of a turkey and roast it. It’s what the fancy people do for, like, Christmas and stuff.”

Gilmore tries to picture _that_ and wrinkles his nose. “That’s so stupid. No one does that.”

“They do! I saw it on YouTube.”

“Well, then, why wouldn’t they call it a churkey then?”

“A churkey? Now _that’s_ dumb.”

“It makes a hell of a lot more sense than _turducken_. Chicken plus turkey. Churkey.”

Rhonda waves an arm between them. “You’re both idiots. It’s a turducken because there’s a chicken, a turkey, and a duck.”

Aman cringes. “Aw, gross. Who eats ducks.”

Rhonda shrugs. “Fancy people, apparently.”

“Not me, man. I hate ducks. You see ‘em at the park, shitting green slime everywhere… they’re worse than pigeons.”

Gilmore raises his hand. “I don’t get it, though. Does the duck go inside the chicken, or the chicken in the duck? Aren’t they the same size?”

Rhonda makes her horse-face again. “Fuck if I know. Can we just off this guy already?”

“No!” Gilmore steps in front of her, offended on a fundamental level that she would abandon the vision so easily. “We can’t just _off_ him. Like I said, we gotta make this big. Memorable.”

Rhonda twists away, screeching through her clenched teeth. “Then _fine_. What do you want to do with him?”

“Might I make a suggestion?”

At the sound of an unexpected voice, the three of them jump and whirl on the source of the intrusion. The forger lounges on his side, head propped on one hand, still on the ground and looking far more comfortable than a prisoner should.

Gilmore points and turns to Rhonda. “He’s awake! Why didn’t you say anything?”

She raises her brows at him and widens her eyes. “Was that my job?”

The forger crosses his legs at the ankles, his nonchalant demeanor a perfect match to the snotty British accent. “If I’ve tracked your scintillating conversation accurately, your plan is to kill me in some spectacular way as a means of getting revenge on Dominic Cobb.”

“That’s right.” Aman shuffles closer, chin raised. “So if you have any last words, now’s your chance.”

“Wait, didn’t we cuff you?”

The forger dismisses that question with a disappointed shake of his head. “We have a problem here. If Cobb is your target, then you’ve picked the wrong ammunition.”

“Don’t bother with your tricks.” Gilmore hisses, leaning in. Not, like, _close_. But enough to demonstrate his superior standing. “Everyone knows you and Cobb worked some big job together. That he risked his own life to recruit you personally. Real inner circle shit. And Cobb doesn’t stick his neck out for just anybody.”

The forger tuts at them like a weary schoolteacher. “Here’s the deal, fellas. Cobb is an asshat and no friend of mine—”

Aman scoffs. “Of course, you’d say that.”

“And,” the forger continues with a chiding look, “seeing as that’s the case, it would be best if you let me go before all this rebounds on you. Although that truly would be spectacular.”

They shift back as a unit. Rhonda belatedly remembers the gun in her hand and brings it level. “Are you threatening us?” She thumbs the safety off. “You’re the victim here, buddy.”

Sighing, the forger taps the toe of his shoe against the cement floor. “I’m not threatening you, no. Merely pointing out that my absence won’t go unnoticed much longer, at which point you lot will have some explaining to do.”

“Explain to who? Cobb?”

“ _No_ , you fungus.” He sits upright, spooking Aman further away. “I just said—ugh, nevermind. You’ll be explaining to my delightfully attentive and occasionally overprotective boyfriend, is what you’ll be doing.”

Rhonda tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Cobb ain’t your boyfriend?”

“For fucks sake. No. God, no.” The forger shudders. “Not Cobb. Arthur.”

Hold up. Wait, wait, waitwaitwait. Gilmore swallows around a suddenly dry throat. “Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“You’re dating Arthur? The one with the…”

“Yes.”

Aman squeaks from the corner. “You mean that guy who…”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Rhonda lowers the gun. “Shit.”

* * *

Arthur gives his lover a cool stare down.

Normally he’d be quick to move this spectacle indoors before his neighbors notice the large man bound neck-to-knee in duct tape sitting on his porch. He doesn’t need that kind of scrutiny in his life. But his carefully ordered world has acquired some… color, ever since he made the fateful decision of climbing onto Eames’s lap one day.

Usually it’s been worth it. Sometimes… sometimes Eames’s shenanigans are just too confusing to deal with on a Wednesday afternoon.

He looks away from Eames’s bland smile, down to the handwritten note taped to his chest.

_We’re so sorry. Please don’t kill us._

With a hasty postscript scribbled at the bottom corner: _happy holidays!_

“Okay.” He exhales slowly. “The part where you’re tied up makes sense, god help me. Even the part where your kidnappers apparently changed their minds and tried to return you. I can sympathize, honestly.”

“Oh, har har.” Eames lifts a scornful brow, but the effect is lost thanks, largely, to the random scrap of tape dangling from his ear.

“But what’s with the turkey?”

Eames looks down at the frozen turkey perched in his lap. “They wanted to sweeten the deal. Just the turkey, though. Everyone agreed that a bird stuffed with other birds was kind of gross and unnecessary.”

“Huh.”

“You want to cut me loose me now, love? Butterball here is freezing my bits off. Arthur? Arthur. Arthur, get back here. Son of a— _Arthur_.”


End file.
